You know in your soul if I'm talking to you...

Every day that I awake I thank the Lord that I am not you.

I am not a liar, a fake, nor a thief.  I've never intended harm, but instead have only defended myself and those like me, who sometimes stumble in their own defense.  I am not as vile and selfish as you,  to use my power so wickedly.  Nor am I so machiavellian, to empower slives who do the same, such as you and your cohort so often do.  I could never take false names, claim false deeds, nor rise for false acclaim just to ensnare the vulnerable, just as I have seen you do, time and again.  You see, I could never feed upon those crying out their unheard desperation.  Nor could I laugh at pain and suffering I caused, nor could I ever mock the weak and downtrodden - the way you like to do.  No... I could never behave such as you.

How could I face any day if what is true for you were true for me too?

I dare not think I could. 

For I could not wake knowing, like you, I had harmed others for entertainment and greed.  I could not, I swear, in any way, live that sort of shame, day after day, night after night. 

No... for all that I am thankful for, I am second most thankful I am not you.
 

X
07/25/2024

The Great Queen
once ruled over all,
the light and the dark,
and their ethereal dance

Everything living together
in perfect balance

then a sickness fell over the land
a sickness of ego, pride,
vanity and greed
which spread like war
devouring indiscriminately
the souls of her kin

So Queen Mab turned to her sister, Nimue
The Lady of The Lake
The Queen of all water
which stands
upon the Earth

Nimue told Mab it must be the people
who fight for themselves

But Mab was not satisfied
So she devised a plan
to create a King
a noble shepherd
who would lead her people
out of the darkness
and into an enlightened age

But the King grew selfish and cruel
quickly becoming obsessed with
his own power
so he chose instead to rain terror
down upon those
he had been born to protect
The Fire Lion
The Destroyer of Worlds
decided instead to decimate and torture
the already ravaged people
and their lands

In her immense sorrow and grief,
Queen Mab wept
and wept
for every living thing
the evil corruption had
devoured

tears rolled out across the land
tears that blessed
the few innocents
who had survived

scoured clean once more
The Great Queen's lands quickly recovered
and were once again restored
to the perfect harmony
of chaotic order


A Fairy Story
*from generation to generation
we learn

I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider's web,
The collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her wagoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.
And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight,
O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plats the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she--



shakespeare